I don't enjoy reading other peoples blogs. It makes me sad. [But I sure would like some strangers to comment on mine. I'm a sucker for other peoples opinion.]
However, blogging per se is a wonderful exercise. Cathartic.Download all your nonsense or let your imagination soar.Infact I'm beginning to enjoy it a lot. I keep thinking about what I should be writing next.
Saturday, 21 April 2007
Friday, 20 April 2007
Tale from the hills
Two beautiful years of childhood were spent in heavenly verdant lap of the Himalayas. Almora, to be precise. My family and I, together bit by wanderlust, spent a considerable time exploring the virgin territories of this amazing landscape. Tehri, Garh Mukteshwar, Pithoragarh, Uttarkashi, Chamoli et al.
I have quite naturally, some wonderful young memories of my time spent there. One such place I visited deserves a mention here called Munshiari. If I recollect correctly, it was a picnic of some sort on large green patch on a plateau. Overlooking this plateau was a large pointed snow-capped mountain, which to me, resembled a cone of ‘Rita’ ice cream. In between these two was a deep ominous valley. I still remember the place because the peak seemed to be so close that I felt that I could reach out my five year old hands and touch the snow on the peak. Quite unbelievable.
It is therefore with much eagerness that I picked up a book called The Man-eaters of Kumaon by Jim Corbett.
The book is a collection of the adventures of this great man, taking place at various locations I mentioned above. It immediately took me back in time and brought back some wonderful memories. Any experience, which does that to me, is something I will cherish forever. But it is not merely my own childhood experiences, which compel me to write about this book. This collection of stories is truly a fantastic read.
Corbett relates one adventure after another with the big cat. You can almost smell the jungle, hear the rustling of leaves under the soft paws of a tiger and see the naked face of terror upon staring into a leopard’s eye in the wild. The setting is so realistic, the fear raw and the atmosphere taut.
At no point does Corbett come across as a fearless hunter going after the tigers. He is mostly scared stiff and shows reverence for these magnificent animals. His fear and adventures are so frightfully real that it puts to shame all the contrived thrillers and artificial situations we come across in the works of Sheldon, Archer and Follet etc.
Corbett brings alive, with his simplistic and humble style, the lives of the ordinary men folk, the land and the beasts. I can bet anyone who reads the Champawat man-eater alone in the wee hours of night would jump at the slightest creak of the door.
I have quite naturally, some wonderful young memories of my time spent there. One such place I visited deserves a mention here called Munshiari. If I recollect correctly, it was a picnic of some sort on large green patch on a plateau. Overlooking this plateau was a large pointed snow-capped mountain, which to me, resembled a cone of ‘Rita’ ice cream. In between these two was a deep ominous valley. I still remember the place because the peak seemed to be so close that I felt that I could reach out my five year old hands and touch the snow on the peak. Quite unbelievable.
It is therefore with much eagerness that I picked up a book called The Man-eaters of Kumaon by Jim Corbett.
The book is a collection of the adventures of this great man, taking place at various locations I mentioned above. It immediately took me back in time and brought back some wonderful memories. Any experience, which does that to me, is something I will cherish forever. But it is not merely my own childhood experiences, which compel me to write about this book. This collection of stories is truly a fantastic read.
Corbett relates one adventure after another with the big cat. You can almost smell the jungle, hear the rustling of leaves under the soft paws of a tiger and see the naked face of terror upon staring into a leopard’s eye in the wild. The setting is so realistic, the fear raw and the atmosphere taut.
At no point does Corbett come across as a fearless hunter going after the tigers. He is mostly scared stiff and shows reverence for these magnificent animals. His fear and adventures are so frightfully real that it puts to shame all the contrived thrillers and artificial situations we come across in the works of Sheldon, Archer and Follet etc.
Corbett brings alive, with his simplistic and humble style, the lives of the ordinary men folk, the land and the beasts. I can bet anyone who reads the Champawat man-eater alone in the wee hours of night would jump at the slightest creak of the door.
Questions I want to ask the West Indies
How could Sir Vivian Richards walk into the ground with such brutal self-confidence? Swagger to match an undefeated knight, brandishing his battle weary blade. Knowing that he could decimate the opposition and then do it. How could he do all this and yet fill the hearts of the opponent’s team and supporters with joy?
How could the Big Cat, Clive Lloyd move like a Neanderthal man dragging his club along the ground, and smash the cricket ball into a pulp.
How did Jeff Dujon and Gus Logie perfect their respective arts of keeping and fielding when these were skill just talked about?
How could the tiny islands of West Indies produce an assembly line of tall monstrously fast bowlers that one of them was considered fit to be called the Whispering death?
How did the average West Indian learn to love and celebrate his cricket the way only he does?
And how does a team like that reduce itself to a caricature of its former self?
Wither West Indies. Where art thou?
How could the Big Cat, Clive Lloyd move like a Neanderthal man dragging his club along the ground, and smash the cricket ball into a pulp.
How did Jeff Dujon and Gus Logie perfect their respective arts of keeping and fielding when these were skill just talked about?
How could the tiny islands of West Indies produce an assembly line of tall monstrously fast bowlers that one of them was considered fit to be called the Whispering death?
How did the average West Indian learn to love and celebrate his cricket the way only he does?
And how does a team like that reduce itself to a caricature of its former self?
Wither West Indies. Where art thou?
Friday, 6 April 2007
The Guide
I recently finished a book called The Guide written by the venerable RK Narayan. The first thought that came to my mind was that this is a story which longs to be written in Tamil.
The innocent descriptions of a typical day in a typical Tamil set-up and the subtle nuances of bucolic Tamil life would come alive in the native language. The medium of expression needs to be true to the chosen environment and the narration must emanate from real experiences. When these come together, magic happens. As something I experienced reading the works of Munshi Premchand.
The Guide tells the story of a journey of a young high-spirited man, who on account of his enterprise, journeys through a life less ordinary. The book does bring alive the life in a typical 50-60's era sleepy town somewhere in Tamil Nadu, but only to an extent. I felt the book moved a tad too fast. The important times and turnarounds in the lives of the main protaganists left little impact on me, let alone move me.The story is interesting and one is left thinking , in the hands of a master this would spell magic. But,my judgement is impaired because I am far removed and ignorant of the setting, this book was written in.
Which brings me to the film made on the book by the same name. The film is an entertaining watch and leaves little impact, jus like the book. That is, right until the climax. This is where the director redeems himself. The film rolls along smoothly with excellent music and Dev Anands stylish demeanour. It is the end which grabs you.
Full marks to the maker of the film for the adapted screenplay. Adapted, because, the film is only loosely based on the book. The script 'adapts' the book to a more North Indian setting and elongates the ending, much to the joy and satisfation of the viewer. The transformation of Raju from a happy-go-lucky guide to a saint is more pronounced in the film.My take, unless you're a Tam, avoid the book and have a dekko at the film.
The innocent descriptions of a typical day in a typical Tamil set-up and the subtle nuances of bucolic Tamil life would come alive in the native language. The medium of expression needs to be true to the chosen environment and the narration must emanate from real experiences. When these come together, magic happens. As something I experienced reading the works of Munshi Premchand.
The Guide tells the story of a journey of a young high-spirited man, who on account of his enterprise, journeys through a life less ordinary. The book does bring alive the life in a typical 50-60's era sleepy town somewhere in Tamil Nadu, but only to an extent. I felt the book moved a tad too fast. The important times and turnarounds in the lives of the main protaganists left little impact on me, let alone move me.The story is interesting and one is left thinking , in the hands of a master this would spell magic. But,my judgement is impaired because I am far removed and ignorant of the setting, this book was written in.
Which brings me to the film made on the book by the same name. The film is an entertaining watch and leaves little impact, jus like the book. That is, right until the climax. This is where the director redeems himself. The film rolls along smoothly with excellent music and Dev Anands stylish demeanour. It is the end which grabs you.
Full marks to the maker of the film for the adapted screenplay. Adapted, because, the film is only loosely based on the book. The script 'adapts' the book to a more North Indian setting and elongates the ending, much to the joy and satisfation of the viewer. The transformation of Raju from a happy-go-lucky guide to a saint is more pronounced in the film.My take, unless you're a Tam, avoid the book and have a dekko at the film.
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